Path
by Nevermore22
Summary: A hero goes missing. Pain is present. Distress is clear. Sometimes, paths interwine in the strangest of ways. Rathed R to be safe.
1. Default Chapter

Author Notes: Caffeine Justice League THIS. And that's my reason for writing this. XD; Just the first part here. Oh well. :3

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Heck, my JL tapes are recorded off TV, and, thus, bootleg. I own NOTHING! Bwahahaha! :flops thuds:

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Path

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I cannot see how you can be

So fucking hateful of my ways

From all these thoughts, I will not stray

The hate I feel today

-- Ill Nino, 'If You Still Hate Me'

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**Thump. Thump.**

A groan sounded against the darkness, the only sound save for the nearly rhythmatic beats. Amber eyes opened as confusion reared, but ebony was the only witness.

What had happened? The last he could recall, he had been on his way home, slinking through the shadows to avoid being seen. Then.. Had he been struck from behind? Memory failed.

**Thump. Thump. Thump.**

The beats grew faster, terrifying drums, and realization bloomed; his own heart seemed impossibly loud.

Coherency was slowly but surely returning. Thoughts struggled to string together, and the absent thought passed, wondering if he had been drugged. Attempt to sit, to stand, failed with the notice of bonds; thick, plastic straps held him immobile, the kind used in psychiatry wards.

Bound. Drugged. Dark. Thoughts joined with realization and wed with horror.

**Thumpthumpthumpthump.**

What had happened? What had happened?! Vision could not be properly accessed, and it only led to the rise of fear.

**Creak.**

… That was not his heart.

There came a sudden, startling light; a doorway opened, but glare proved to be too strong against his own eyes. All he could see was a shadow, a silhouette, against the white.

"How lucky." A cruel voice crooned in clear glee. "A brand new toy to play with."

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_"J'onn!"_ The thick voice boomed across communications, laced with panic. _"I can't find him!"_

The last living Martian had to conceal the cringe, masking his annoyance; for all the times for a vague call, this was certainly not the best of them. "Hawk, what's the problem?"

_"I can't find Dove! Have you seen him? He didn't come home!"_

"Hawk, the last mission Dove was sent on was with you over two days ago--"

_"He left the house for goddamn groceries, and he **did not come home**!"_

"Hawk!" Slowly, J'onns emotions were becoming clear. "The League is currently dealing with a Delta-Class situation in downtown Metropolis! Perhaps he took a longer route home. But it hardly qualifies for --"

_"He's been missing since last night! He's **never** been gone this long!"_

**That** gave the Martian reason to pause. It was nearly noon in the city where Hawk and Dove spent their civilian lives; twelve hours of no word for a duo as close as they were did not bode well.

"After this situation is cleared, I'll inform the League. We'll find Dove."

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"Now, then, little one.." A saccharine mockery laced his kidnappers' tone. "What _is_ your name?" A stab of pain, temporary yet wholly painful, followed the words.

A short time after he had awoken, barely an hour by the large clock oddly place on the wall, the pain had begun. It lacked rhyme or reason, at first, and there came query as to why it was happening, but each question was met with further pain. The clock was the only distraction.

Red and white. The clock was red and white. It reminded him of the clocks in nostalgic 50's restaurants.

At thirteen past twelve, the question came.

At first, there came confusion, but the strike of the small whip across his bare stomach quickly chased it away. He answered, of course, as soon as he was able; there was every reason to do so, and very little reason against it.

"No, no, no, little one." Cruelty crooned. "Your _other_ name."

That was when he realized he had given the name of his mask. Two strikes of the whip passed before he could bring himself to reply; regret formed nearly immediately.

"Now, that wasn't so hard, was it?" Laughter that could so easily be mistaken as cheerful, yet was so dark at the same time.

The whip came down again.

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The security tapes from the front of the grocery store became the first lead in the League's investigation; a man, normal and plain and so easy to blend into a crowd, following the civilian garbed Dove.

Similar security recordings from a shop less then twenty feet down the road revealed the absence of both.

The man lead no hits upon the League's computers; none of the worlds' heroes had ever seen this man before. There was very little choice but to physically send a few of the League down to the small stores, asking with photo in hand if anyone knew who the man was.

Within an hour, they had a name. Within an hour and a half, they had information. Within two hours, they had a location.

Within five minutes, they had hope.

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The clock was all that he had left.

After some time, his kidnapper seemed to obtain boredom; the whip was taken away, was replaced with further horror, only to become worse when boredom reintroduced itself again. Each time, eyes wandered to the only distraction available, the only escape possible.

One limb was simply gone, taken cruelly with a blade he could have sworn was dull to have invoked the agony that it had. The flesh of the lost limb had later been forced down his throat, and the sick nausea that it had caused was stopped with a tight gag. Burns laced wounds that decorated flesh, and the still bleeding scar across his temple was lost in a sea of pained recollection. He could no longer recall when his clothes had been taken.

He had plead, had screamed, but his torturer had simply laughed, a light baritone that he had quickly learned to hate. Out of desperation, he had offered information, had laid his knowledge bare, simply wishing for the pain to cease. His kidnapper took what he wanted, and did as he pleased.

Eyes wandered amidst cries towards the clock; it was all that was left.

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Adam Craven, the League learned, was a devout psychotic. At least, that was the opinion of most who learned of him.

He was barely thirty, younger than most of those dubbed 'villains' that the League had faced in the past. There was, as well, nothing particularly special about the man; no powers, no dark history, he even had the appearance of a normal man. Brown hair, brown eyes, someone one could look upon and easily forget.

However, Mr. Craven was an outspoken man, and, after the Thanagarian invasion, had become quite the pro-human; or, as often thought, an anti-nonhuman. It was clear from anything he had spoken or written that he hated Superhumans, Mutants, Metahumans, or anything that could be classified as one or the other.

Yet, it was still somehow particularly surprising when the League found that he had been behind the disappearance of a member of the League. It was never thought that a normal man would go so far as kidnapping out of sheer hatred of existence.

"But, then," One of the heroes had said, "isn't that the human condition?"

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The man was gone. It was as much of a shock as it was an incredible relief; he could not recall the last time he had been alone, if such a time had existed during his captivity at all. Yet, now, he was alone, left with nothing but his pain, his thoughts, and the clock.

However, the clock was now not needed. The pain that existed now was nothing compared to the agony of before, was nearly a dull ache. Nearly, but not quite.

Thus, his thoughts were all that remained. The last strings of hope, misery, regret. A great deal of regret, he realized; there was so much in his life that he wished he could now undo.

His entire way of life was flawed. Suddenly, he found himself wishing for survival, to have a second chance at all that had gone wrong. He knew he would not, could not, survive; his kidnapper had said as much. He did not doubt him. Everything else he had said had come to pass.

Misery entwined with regret; heaving sobs forced themselves past the gag still in place; tears escaped closed eyes.

**Creak.**

He could only turn his head to stare in alarm; immediately, he wished he hadn't, wished he did not look. The man was back.

He held a metal mallet in one hand.

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The house seemed disturbingly normal. A standard, cookie-cutout house, nearly identical to all the others lining the street, save for the color of the roof. Red and white shingles. The roof was red and white.

"Superman, are you sure this is the right house?" Wonder Woman queried, standing, alone, in front of the small building. She looked to the sky briefly, looking for the Man of Steel. _"_It seems so.. Normal."

_"It's the right one."_ Was the brisk reply. _"The basement is coated in lead."_ There was only one reason for that to be.

_"There's not a lot we know about this guy."_ Green Lantern, at the back of the house, suddenly spoke. _"We need to be on our guard."_

That seemed to be the silent order to begin. The princess of Themyscera did not bother with a grand entrance; she simply walked to the front door and forced it down.

A similar sound came from another room; Green Lantern had taken the same approach. Wonder Woman did not wait for her friend to join with her; instead, she headed to the lower floor by way of the stairs. She wanted to rescue Dove as quickly as possible.

J'onn had said he felt a great deal of distress from the captured hero. She hoped that he was not harmed.

The basement, she learned, was surprisingly small; a total of two rooms, directly across from each other. She opened the left door, and found what she desired.

"Dove!" She gasped in relief, shocked at the state she found him in.

He was unharmed.

In civilian cloth, arms bound behind his back and chained to the wall, but unharmed.

"I found Dove!" She spoke into the communicator. "He seems to be all right. _Are _you all right, Dove?"

The young man, somewhat pale and eyes wide, could only nod. He seemed to be at a loss for words, and it only led to the princess's concern.

"What happened?" She had tried to ask.

_"Oh my.."_ Green Lantern gasped, horror clear in his tone. _"We need a medical transport down here **now**! We have a second victim here!"_

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Wonder Woman had found Dove through the left. Green Lantern decided to check the right.

He was glad that he had.

At first, he could only stare in numb horror. "Oh my.." It took a long second before he was able to call through his communicator. "We need a medical transport down here _now_! We have a second victim here!"

The man was strapped to a table, practically covered in blood. It was clear that he was once a metahuman, or, at the least, a mutant; half of a tail lay connected to flesh. It had been forcefully removed, if the gore coated butcher knife on the floor was any indication.

The hero clad in green made his way as quickly as he was able to the side of the table, trying to remove the straps without further injuring the poor soul; both arms, from elbow to fingertips, looked as if someone had run them over. Marks from what he thought was from a whip covered his torso, and burns from an unknown source seemed to randomly plaster themselves around flesh.

The wielder of an Oan ring looked to his face; somehow, he felt ill at what lay before him. Both eyes were simply gone, were nothing more than blood and gore.

_"We have a Javelin outside, Lantern."_ Diana's voice suddenly came into focus. _"I'm coming in to help."_

He couldn't bring himself to tell her to stop, that he could bring the tortured body outside himself; not after realizing that the body was not simply a body, and, in fact, was trembling, and had begun to whimper. The body was awake.

There was no attempt to use his ring; the straps were now gone, and the gag was simply, albeit gently, torn free.

"Great Hera!" Came the horrified yelp. "Lantern, do you.." Wonder Woman paused, swallowed audibly, looked briefly to the whimpering, bloodied mass, before looking back to her friend. "Do you need me to carry him?"

He couldn't speak, feeling ill from the stench of blood and death, and had finally made use of the ring; green encompassed the still bleeding form, bringing him gently through the air. A yelp of surprise was all that escaped, but the whimpers continued.

Even as they left the room that had nearly been this mans' grave, a horrified notice came into the two heroes' vision; there were corpses in the darkened corners of the room.

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No one was quite sure how Mr. Craven had known they were going to arrive, or how he continued to evade being found. There had been a call to every member of the League to be on the lookout for the nearly nondescript man; justice had to be done.

The medical team aboard the Watchtower was all that was keeping the rescued individual from death. His identity was still unknown, but all that could be done was being done to keep him alive.

The damage done was horrifying.

"Elbow and knees were dislocated. Two broken ribs. Second degree burns from what appears to be a branding iron, or a piece of heated metal. Several dozen whip marks along the abdomen. It seems his hands and lower arms were crushed with a meat cleaver, and he'll be lucky if he'll so much as be able to open a can of soda ever again. His eyes were physically removed, his eardrums seemed to have been destroyed, and it seems like his tail was cut in half." Batman frowned, seemingly disturbed by the information. "DNA tests bring up no matches on the Watchtowers' computers, or my own."

"There were four corpses in the same room." Green Lantern's composure seemed to have returned, his tone strong. "Two metahumans, one mutant, and an atlantean." The surrounding members of the League stared in shock; he frowned, lifting a shoulder in a small shrug. "I was just as surprised as the rest of you. I already contacted Aquaman."

Silence reigned for a long several minutes. The implications of the situation had not gone unnoticed, and each of the top members of the Justice League knew what it all translated into.

"Why didn't we notice this before?" Superman's rhetorical question was almost a surprise. "Four innocent people are dead, it may turn into five, and one of our own nearly met the same fate. How did we miss this?"

"This is all too freaky." Came a shudder from Flash. "We didn't even catch the guy." The fastest man alive paused for a moment, blinked once, then looked to J'onn. "Hey, can't you use your telepathy to find out who the guy in the medwing is?"

The last surviving Martian simply nodded. "I was about to ask permission, actually."

"Do it." Superman nodded once. "I'm sure he would like his family to know he's alive."

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There was no pain, and he was not yet dead. Somehow, the two facts should not have gone hand in hand, and it was a complete surprise to find that either existed at all.

Something, however, felt odd. He was only half conscious, he knew, was quite aware that he was in some sort of hospital, if his own sense of smell was not deceiving him. Yet, simply did not want to fully accept consciousness; he feared it was all an illusion, hallucinated knowledge, and that agony awaited him.

_We will not hurt you._ The soothing voice was a surprise; was that his mind, or someone else? _You are not insane, either._

**Who are you? What's happening?** He wanted to ask, but dared not attempt to speak.

_I am with the Justice League. You were rescued last night._ Rescued? He truly was gone from that place, then.

_It is all right._ The voice soothed, somehow sensing his nearly hysterical relief. _I need to ask your name, however. We want to contact your family, to let them know that you're here._

**I..**

Several moments passed in silence. The Martian sitting on a chair next to the bedridden patient suddenly opened his eyes, blinking in surprise. He had found out who the man was, and was wholeheartedly shocked.

"…Copperhead?"

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My life is not something you think you can run

You should have learned

This is the reason we're done

I hate your ways, and everything that you say

I wish you dead

-- Ill Nino, 'If You Still Hate Me'

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Author Notes: And.. Er.. Yeah. There ya go. Part one sthuff. Did you like the ebilness? I need to write more ebilness. Cc waves about a flag with 'EBIL' in felt letters

Viva La Feedback! X3


	2. Chapter Two

Author notes: Here's the second chapter. Most of this was written between classes. XD Horay for college and classes at random hours!

Disclaimer: I own none of these characters, except for Adam Craven. And I also own a 6-foot-tall Superman plush I won at Six Flags. He pwns you all.

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Path

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How can we still succeed, taking what we don't need?

Telling lies, alibis, selling all the hate that we breed

Supersize our tragedy! (You can't define me or justify greed!)

Bought in the land of the free! (Land! Free!)

And we're all to blame

We've gone too far, from pride to shame

We're trying so hard

We're dying in vain

We're hopelessly blissful and blind

It's all we are

We want it all with no sacrifice

-- Sum 41, 'We're All To Blame'

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Somehow, he should have expected the nearly identical surprise on the five faces around him. Somehow, it was still surprising.

"Copperhead? The snake guy? Seriously?" The speedster known as Flash was the first to form proper coherency. At least, what was proper for the Flash.

"Copperhead is far too large a risk to stay in the Watchtower." Batman spoke with the conviction of knowledge and of battles lived. "He should recover elsewhere."

"Risk? He's blind and deaf. What kind of risk is that?" Flash nearly laughed.

"And when he's able to move around again? When he has the perfect opportunity, not to mention location, to strike us?" Wonder Woman looked between her allies, her friends. "I agree with Batman. Too much of a risk."

"He's blind and deaf!" Came the repeated exclamation from Flash.

"He's heavily injured, possibly gravely; he isn't even off of life support, yet." The near godly tone of Superman's voice cut through the air. "We should not send him out of the Watchtower yet. True, there is a risk that he stays, but there's a risk if he left; a risk that he could die. I won't accept that."

"The fact remains that he's too heavily injured to be moved." Green Lantern's voice came almost suddenly. "The least we should do is wait until he **can** be moved."

The last surviving Martian said nothing for several long moments. When the words came, however, they were soft, nearly saddened in quality. "Copperheads' mind has been nearly shattered by his experience. If he recovers properly from his wounds, if he would regain his sight and hearing, there is very little chance he would have the mind to attack us."

Decision was surprising; four against two. They would not yet force their enemy to leave.

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_"What do you want from me?"_

In later retrospect, he would realize that it had taken far too long to ask the simplest of questions. The clock declared that it had been over an hour after he had woken from his forced unconscious state, and nearly three quarters of an hour after the pain had begun.

At first, the only response was another lash from the small, leather whip. It tore through his costume, revealing pale, bleeding flesh underneath; the sight did not bother him. He had seen blood before.

There was expectation for another lash to fall. When it did not, and the man responsible for the current situation was beyond his range of vision, he took the moment to attempt thought.

Why was this happening? True, he had stolen from a great many people over the past years, and he didn't put it past any of his victims to try and take revenge for wealth lost, but he would have thought that he would, at the least, be told what the vengeance was being extracted for. As it stood, he had no idea what he may have done to this particular man in the past.

Suddenly, his head was held immobile, two large hands at the sides of his skull. If he had been able, he would have jumped in alarm; instead, he merely held his breath in panic. After a long two seconds, and an almost gentle chuckle from the man behind him, the headpiece to his costume was slowly slid off.

Breath came again, but the panic remained. There was an attempt to remove his shirt with the same gentleness, but the restraints prevented completion; a blade, likely a knife, cut apart the synthetic fabric.

Hands reached for the rim of his pants, and he practically yelped as panic met with fear. "What are you **doing**?!"

The man paused, staring with dark, gleeful eyes at his own. He said nothing, merely used the same blade to remove the last shred of clothing, hand reaching for the whip before it was even completed.

He prayed that it wasn't what it appeared to be.

In later retrospect, he would be immensely glad that it wasn't.

The whip came down again, evoking a startled cry. He stared in shock, breath escaping in rasping halts. "Why are you doing this?" Came the almost softly spoken query.

An answer never came.

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Footsteps echoed along the surprisingly empty corridor, leaving their owner in sullen thoughts. It was all the better, she supposed; she didn't want to answer any queries at the moment.

Nearly every female member of the League respected and admired the princess of Themyscera, the immortal who chose the name Wonder Woman. She was strong in body, strong in mind, fought for everything that truth and justice represents, and had saved the world from peril countless times. At least, that was the general consensus.

It was the reason she didn't want to answer any questions now; she had very little idea how she would react to the simplest of queries; what was she doing here?

What **was **she doing in the medical wing, intent on visiting an enemy? She hardly knew, herself; simply put, she hadn't seen Copperhead in this condition before.

Wonder Woman supposed she wanted to know why the others insisted he stay. His injuries were severe, true, but she was certain he could recover in a more secure place.

The door slid open with a quiet hiss, and all thoughts faded in nothing short of shock.

Injures, including potential life threatening wounds, occurred in the League on a regular basis; it was why the med wing was constructed in the first place. Yet, despite the countless injuries suffered, despite the time after time she had seen a pained hero undergo medical treatment, she had never before seen a man covered in so much gauze.

Several tentative steps were taken into the room; the only witnesses to her presence were two meek nurses. With a sudden resolve, strength returned to her stride; Wonder Woman was at Copperheads' side within seconds.

It was unclear weather he was unconscious or not; medical tape was wrapped firmly around where his eyes once were, and silence reigned.

Deaf and blind; she could hardly imagine what he must have suffered through.

After a long few seconds, sound exploded; the heart monitor became an erratic string of beeps, and it gave cause for the immortal to pause in alarm.

However, the monitor was quickly forgotten; a new sound, wholly more frightening, released itself from the now clearly unconscious metahuman.

At first, it was merely whimpers; after a short second, it erupted into screams.

A nurse was at his side nearly instantly, syringe in one hand; the body began to quiet as soon as medication was injected.

For several long moments, Diana was only able to stand there, shock and surprise displayed clearly across her features. "How.." She tried to ask, had to attempt again. "How often has this been happening?"

The second nurse sighed, shaking her head, bright eyes now mournful. "Every couple of hours. Poor guy has nothing to take his mind off of what was done to him."

Silence reigned for a long moment; Diana could only stare at a face locked in pain. Nearly subconsciously, her hand laid itself along the suffering man's forehead.

Suddenly, she understood.

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Had he been able to see, Copperhead was certain his vision would have been blurry. Still, it would have been better than the abyss he was in, now; blurry vision is better than no vision at all.

Memory and nightmares continued to plague him; he was certain he would soon go mad. At least, if he wasn't mad already.

Sudden, unexpected touch from the world he had both lost and never truly known; a soft, gentle, touch at his forehead, above the wraps covering his missing eyes. Someone had actually visited him.

It was as much of a shock as anything else that had happened; he was certain that the League had only rescued him out of necessity; leaving an enemy to die a painful death wouldn't have been good for publicity, he was sure. Yet, someone was here. A woman, if his sense of smell was still intact.

He turned his head in the direction he thought she was in, and tried to do what would be so simple for anyone else, what had once been so simple before and yet so seldom done; he tried to thank her. He wasn't sure what came out, unable to hear his own voice.

The small action cost him his remaining energy; medication suddenly took effect, and a dreamless, thankful oblivion loomed.

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The rasping half breath that escaped had sounded so much like a 'thank you'; it gave cause for Diana to literally pause in surprise.

She hadn't expected the metahuman to notice she was there; she had expected the praise even less. For a short moment, stunned surprise reigned, before an entirely new and unexpected emotion flare along the princess's mind.

Pity; not the pity she normally bestowed upon enemies, touched with anger and sometimes hate, but pity reserved for the innocents harmed in the countless battles the world had born witness. She hoped, suddenly, that recovery would come swift and memory would be healed.

Diana hoped that Copperhead would live.

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_It had only been four hours and twenty seven minutes since he had first opened his eyes, but it had felt like an eternity. Thoughts passed, whenever he could find a brief relapse between the pain, if he had died and been sent to Hell._

Four hours, twenty eight minutes and thirty seven seconds; vision blurred from pain, time robbed by his own tears. Had he been asked the night before, he would have proudly proclaimed that he hadn't shed a tear since childhood.

The Man was still there, and brief wonder passed, momentarily suspecting He was the Devil. He was pacing back and forth, now, hated voice seeming so kind and so vicious all at once.

"Oh, little one, what should we do now?"

Decision came not to answer; the last time he had tried, he had been branded with a heated pipe.

At four hours, thirty two minutes and nine seconds, vision cleared enough to stare at the clock. Whimpers passed from his own throat, unable to be repressed; hate, directed at himself, for his own weakness.

Sudden contact tore a gasp; a hand, His hand, was on his tail. There was too much fear to look at what could be happening, and, yet, too much fear **not **to look. After several gasping seconds, he looked down.

The dark shade of His eyes stared back, a wicked grin splayed across His face. He had waited for His victim to witness, and, once that knowledge became clear, a heavy pit formed within his gut.

The Man slowly lifted what looked like a butcher knife into the air, and, at once, he knew that this would be very, very bad. It proved to be more than correct, as the first strike fell.

A scream wrenched itself from a throat abused by previous cries; he swung his tail as much as possible, a last, desperate attempt at fight or flight. It was useless, he knew, but animal instinct was nearly impossible to cease; especially when such agony presented itself.

The blade came down countless times after, unending screams filling the chamber, time robbed again as vision blurred.

At four hours, forty eight minutes, feeling from most of his tail was simply lost.

For what felt to be a long time, he simply lied there and cried, sobbing wrecks that he didn't try to suppress. Despite being unable to see what was left of his prized limb, he could physically feel the blood as it seeped from the gaping wound.

"Little one.." The Man's voice would have caused him to jump, had he been able. "How long has it been since you've eaten?"

At five hours, three minutes and one second, Copperhead prayed for death.

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"Did he hurt you? Did he **hurt** you!?" The volatile anger so clearly displayed along his brothers' face did not surprise Dove; however, it still sent a shock down his spine.

For the moment, he was unable to answer the query; Dove shook his head. He knew he appeared pale and shaken, knew that Hawk was worried, knew the worry was not misplaced.

His brother was barely inches away, staring down at him with a mixture of concern, hate, and, barely there, fear.

"Are you sure? What happened?" The question should have been simple to answer, should have been easy to respond to. However, Dove found that 'simple' was beyond his mind to comprehend.

The younger brother nearly broke apart instantly, needing assistance to the nearest chair; alarm and fear were now easily witnessed along Hawk's features. "Hank, it was horrible.." The pair were suddenly thankful to be alone. "There was so much screaming, so much blood.. I could hear that poor man begging and crying, and that.. That.." He paused, unable to find the proper word to describe his kidnapper and almost murderer. "He laughed! He laughed at what was happening and did all he could to make it **worse**!"

The fact that Dove so nearly met the same fate did not need to be spoken; blue cloth shivered as their bearer tried to contain his still existent fear, as red tensed as Hawk's anger released itself in heavy, yet even breaths.

"Dan, I want you to stay in the WatchTower 'til we catch this guy."

Somehow, it was only then that Dove recalled that the kidnapper had not been apprehended; the shivers only increased.

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Realize we've spent our lives living in a culture of fear

Stand to salute; say thanks to the man of the year

How did we all come to this? (You can't define me or justify greed!)

This greed that we just can't resist (Resist)

And now we're all to blame

We've gone too far, from pride to shame

We're hopelessly blissful and blind

When all we need

Is something true to believe

-- Sum 41, 'We're All To Blame'

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There ya go, chappy two. :3 I'm so mean to poor Copperhead. I dunno why. XD

Viva la feedback! Feedback makes my muses happy! More feedback means faster chapters! XD


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